


Spin

by Sulwen



Category: Adam Lambert (Musician), Glam Rock RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-03
Updated: 2011-02-03
Packaged: 2017-10-15 08:15:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/158859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sulwen/pseuds/Sulwen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The power of night and music and memory.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spin

**Author's Note:**

> Shamelessly lush prose. This is what I get for writing at six in the morning.
> 
> Written for @formerlydumb. Thank you for the idea - I hope you like what came of it!

Adam opens the door to a midnight knock, heart in his throat, expecting bad news – late-night visitors with no phone call first have almost always, in his experience, meant some variety of disaster.

He's holding his breath when he sees Tommy, clear-eyed and in utterly perfect makeup, and all the air rushes out of him at once, sweet relief. No one takes the time to do their eyes like that when something's really wrong. He's all in black (something Adam always makes fun of but secretly adores, all that pale perfect skin against dark lines of leather and cotton and denim), and his hair is teased up like Adam likes it, practically an invitation to be touched. His lips are fluidity itself, just on the edge of dripping with shining clear gloss, and Adam finds his gaze catching on them for a moment before finding Tommy's wide eyes.

“Tommy? Hey, what's going on?” Adam asks, running a hand through his own messy hair.

There's no answer. Instead, Tommy just steps forward and waits until Adam backs up, holds the door open to let him inside. He's carrying something in his hand, but Adam can't quite see what it is until he reaches out and turns a lamp on, filling the foyer with soft yellow light. Electric blue shines through clear plastic, and he'd know his album anywhere. But why Tommy's brought it to him in the middle of the night? Not a fucking clue.

Tommy goes into the next room, right to the stereo system on the far wall, and starts flipping switches. He plucks the CD out of the case with nails chipped jagged-black, holds it delicately between his fingers. The light catches it just right, spinning digital rainbows across a field of silver, and Adam's questions catch on the tip of his tongue, stifled by the strange decisiveness of Tommy's actions.

He stands and listens as the songs that make up the sum of his recent life stutter out into the air, nothing but cut-off fragments of sound that escape as Tommy flips through the tracks. Finally, Tommy finds the song he's looking for and turns the volume up, turns around, turns his intense, quiet stare onto Adam.

“Fever” is a mix of memories and sensations, like they all are. This one is all screams – Lady Gaga jumping up and down in bare feet, screaming encouragements at him in the studio, and the screaming of a hundred crowds across the world, and the scream-singing he's torn from his own throat time and again, pulling from a deep well of desperation and want, doing everything in his power to make them _feel_ it. He can feel the choreography pulling at him, and he can see Tommy's fingers twitching unconsciously, tapping out chords on a phantom guitar.

There's a strange look in Tommy's eyes when he finally meets them again, something all tied up in expectation. Adam's about to ask, untwist his tongue and shatter the charge in the air with plainspoken words, when Tommy gives a little sigh, reaches back, and starts the track over again. The opening chords sound again, and the vibration of the bass creeps across the floor and up into his body, setting every nerve ending on edge. Whatever he'd meant to say is forgotten. Instead, he takes a step forward, as if what's written on Tommy's face is just too small to see yet, as if he can understand if he just gets close enough.

Tommy's eyes flutter closed, lashes dark and lush against his cheeks, and his lips part on an inhale, shining cherry-ripe. The screams in Adam's head fade, and underneath them is another layer of memories, etched deep into the fabric of the song. In his head, he can see Tommy as he was on stage, like a dream, like a fantasy, beautiful and pliant and silent, giving himself over to the performance, to the crowd. A dozen kisses, more, blur together in his memory, carefully locked away in a little box that has nothing written on it, plain and padlocked in a deep corner of his mind, a place he'd thought they would remain, gathering dust through the years until it was safe to take them out again and look upon them with a smile.

Tommy opens his eyes again, wide and dark and pleading in the dim light, and he rubs his lips together uncertainly, smearing through the gloss. He reaches back to start the track one more time, and there's an air of finality to it, a feeling that the tension in the air could soon go bitter, wine turning slowly to vinegar.

The song pushes forward, the beat unforgiving, seconds counting themselves away, and this time Adam finds himself whispering along with the opening lines, voice inaudible over the music but no less _there._ Something in Tommy relaxes and tenses at once, paradoxical as ever, and somehow Adam has a hand resting on his face, both hands, cradling his cheeks the way he never could before, not with sightlines and an audience to worry about.

When the moment comes, he almost misses it, heavy self-doubt holding him back. And then Tommy tilts his head up, like the turn of a key.

His lips are just as warm as Adam remembers, just as soft, and for a moment they melt under his just as easily. And then Tommy's got both his hands buried in Adam's hair, pulling him down, pressing into him too hard, and the kiss turns desperate, almost fearful, as if Tommy's afraid that it could be snatched away forever at any moment. And Adam wishes he could be the one to calm them, take them back toward sweetness, but he's terrified too, terrified at how quickly Tommy has wrenched him apart and left all his soft places open and exposed, where they can be far too easily hurt. His arms go around Tommy, clutching at everything he can reach, and his lips are bruising under the hard bite of teeth. He's devoured and devouring, the serpent eating its own tail, all the careful protective lines he's spent two years drawing dashed away in an instant by one all-encompassing kiss.

They reach a breaking point as one and tear away from each other, staring. Tommy looks stricken, breathing hard, mirroring the depth of intensity Adam feels thrumming between them. The stereo has clicked over to the next song, and Adam fumbles for the switch, shutting the whole thing off and leaving them in stark silence, never taking his eyes away from Tommy's.

It's too much. His hands come up over his face, covering his eyes as he tries to adjust to the new look of the world.

“I...I should go.” Tommy's voice is shaking, fear and uncertainty and just the very beginnings of regret.

“No.” Adam's eyes fly open, and he sees Tommy already edging away. He glances around the house, still too-big and not quite home. “Stay. Please?”

Tommy bites his lip, indecisive, and it's only just now beginning to sink in for Adam what a huge risk this was, how much nerve it must have taken to make the first move. He knows exactly how much there was to lose. Is. Is still to lose. And now it's his turn to be brave.

Adam steps forward and reaches out a hand, and Tommy stares at it like it's something foreign, or something that might bite. Adam waits.

Finally, Tommy slides his hand into Adam's, small and cold, and Adam holds on as tight as he dares. And there, in the innocent touch of hand on hand, something unspools, something that's been tangled up in a thousand complications for far too long. Timidly, Adam glances up again to meet Tommy's eyes, and Tommy looks back, the barest touch of a smile on his face, and for just a moment, everything seems beautifully, beautifully _simple,_ just the two of them and the silence and the night.


End file.
